


Rites of Autumn

by gloria_scott



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cemetery, Gen, Temporary Character Death, Wordcount: 100-1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 03:07:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloria_scott/pseuds/gloria_scott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John tends Sherlock’s grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rites of Autumn

**Author's Note:**

>   Originally written for [](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com/profile)[**thegameison_sh**](http://thegameison-sh.livejournal.com/) Cycle 4 Challenge #2 - "Out of the Ordinary". Not beta’d or Brit-picked.

It is a Sunday like any other Sunday. John pats the pockets of his jacket to make sure he has everything he needs, then grabs his keys and makes his way down the stairs and out the door to the street. The sting of the cold October wind pricks his cheeks, and he huddles down into his thin scarf. He probably should have worn his heavy coat. It’s not too late to go back inside to get it, but he’s on his way now; he might not venture out again into the bleak autumn grey if once he returns to the comfort of the Baker Street flat. He raises a hand and hails a taxi instead.

The taxi turns into the cemetery gate and a familiar feeling rises in his chest. Even after three years, it’s always the same. He steels his features against it as the cabbie turns to look at him. John pays the fare and asks him to wait; it should only take about half an hour or so, and he knows he won’t easily get another taxi within a few miles of this quiet little churchyard on the outskirts of London.

He walks a path among the gravestones and stops before a simple white marker, cleanly graven. The groundskeeper has done his job within the past day or so, but the dead leaves are already beginning to accumulate in miniature drifts against the windward side of the stone slab. He stoops down, cursing the pain in his leg under his breath. As his hand sweeps across the hard ground to brush the leaves away, he uncovers one of a peculiarly rectangular shape. He picks it up and shakes off the autumn detritus to reveal a postcard. One side features the barren steppes of Mongolia, the other, a blank white slate.  Without thinking, he pockets the strange item and continues his ritual of putting Sherlock’s grave in order.

Once the dry, frost-bitten grass is cleared to his satisfaction, he draws out the small offerings he brought in his pockets and sets them on top of the stone: a small pouch of his own proprietary blend of English breakfast and lapsang souchong tea and a pack of cigarettes – it just seems more fitting than nicotine patches, and the smoke can’t cause any harm now. The news clippings remain in his hand. He sits with his back to the stone, and begins to read aloud from them. The wind picks up and flutters the ends of the thin papers, threatening to pry them from his fingers. He removes his gloves to keep a better grip, then resumes reading, offering any additional colour and facts he thinks Sherlock would appreciate, much of which he’d wheedled out of Lestrade over their weekly pints at the pub.

When he has no more news of murder and mayhem to share, he stuffs the clippings back into his pocket and puts his gloves back on his numb and fumbling hands. He sits for a while, listening to the hiss of the leaves scurrying among the grass and the rattle of those still stubbornly clinging to the branches of the old chestnut overhead. The cold eventually defeats him and he rises, slowly, with a grimace and a grunt. He limps his way among the gravestones once again, wishing he had thought to bring his cane.

It is only as he begins to thaw out from the cold in the back of the warm taxi, and his mind wanders back to his unexpected find, that he begins to wonder. And it is only as he makes his way up the steps to 221b that he dares begin to hope.


End file.
